


Cleaning out

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pining, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John spends some time thinking while readying 221b for Sherlock's return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning out

**Author's Note:**

> Written quickly, not beta'd. Feel free to bring any mistakes to my attention. Comments appreciated.

John Watson pulled the bin from under the sink -- at least that was still where it belonged -- and set it next to the refrigerator with a heavy sigh. Who knew what he would find inside?  
It had been ten days since Sherlock had last been here, ten days since John had watched him collapse after self-diagnosing internal bleeding for the medics, ten days since he had heard and watched Mary discuss how she shot him.  
Ten days, then, since he had seen or spoken with his wife. If she even was his wife. He didn't even know her name -- what did the law say about marrying under a false identity? Mycroft would know, but then, if Mycroft knew Mary shot Sherlock, her identity might become a moot point. Mycroft, Sherlock said, was the most dangerous man John would ever meet, and he worried about his little brother __constantly. __  
Well. The marriage might be as far beyond its sell-by date as the milk he was about to find in the fridge, John thought. Mary knew how much Sherlock meant to John; when their relationship had moved beyond sharing a table with coffee in the break room to lunch out of the office to dinners and long walks in the park, John had poured his heart out to her, told her how his life drained of color and meaning when Sherlock died. Told her he loved Sherlock, and left it up to her to sort whether he meant as a best friend or brother or something else.  
Then Sherlock came back, and they liked and accepted each other, or at least John had thought so, and then she shot him, knowing what his death would do to John.  
John shook his head, looked at the ceiling, pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn't getting the refrigerator cleaned out and safe for food. He was meant to be getting the flat ready for Sherlock to come home tomorrow, for both of them to come home tomorrow, John in his self-appointed role as Sherlock's caregiver. Once Sherlock no longer needed his help, John didn't know what he would do.  
He would start with the fridge, he told himself, opening the door and steeling himself for a sensory assault from the random too-long-neglected experiments and body parts that tended to be stored there.  
But there was nothing. Well, not precisely nothing. A pint of milk a week out of date, some condiment packets from various take-aways, a foil bag of ground coffee with its top folded over. But no fingers, thumbs, tongues, kidneys or anything else, human or otherwise. No leftover Thai food gone slimy, or bread turned green with mold.  
When had Sherlock started keeping coffee in the fridge? Mary did that, said it kept the taste fresher, but Sherlock generally preferred tea anyway.  
Janine. That morning when she was there, she wanted coffee. Moved the coffee maker nearer the fridge, too, he recalled. Well. That would get moved back to its proper place just as soon as he poured out the milk.  
Odd that the thing John remembered most from that morning was Janine. It wasn't like nothing else was going on: finding Sherlock clearly coming down from a high, seeing him lay hands on Mycroft, Magnussen pissing in the fireplace. He'd have to scrub that out again, maybe every day for the rest of his life.  
John opened all the cabinets and moved the few things he found out of place back to their rightful homes. The coffee maker, the sugar bowl. The tea was in its usual spot, he noticed.  
Christ, but he had been shocked when Janine came sashaying out of Sherlock's room wearing nothing but one of his shirts. You'd think the drugs would be more troubling, but they weren't really, at least not to John. Withdrawal he knew how to handle. Sherlock snuggling in his chair and kissing a girlfriend goodbye? Not so much.  
John wasn't stupid, he told himself as he pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He knew he was jealous. The question was, of what? Was it just because he was supposed to be the one who knew his mad detective best, the one who understood his habits and helped him navigate the social world? Was it because he'd lost his status as Sherlock's best friend, the thing that made him special?  
Or was it because he wanted a different status, one that would allow him to walk out of Sherlock's room half-dressed and walk into the bath while Sherlock was in there? To climb on top of Sherlock in his chair? To kiss those exquisite lips before he left for the day?  
Well, John, the fact that you're thinking about Sherlock's lips pretty much answers that, he told himself, opening the wardrobe to remove any clothing Janine had left behind.  
There was nothing there. Nor in any of the dresser drawers. Sherlock's sock index remained undisturbed. John knew Mrs. Hudson hadn't removed anything. She'd told him as much when he said he'd be coming by today.  
Sherlock had told him the whole relationship was fake. Now it looked like Janine was putting on a show for him, too. She may have spent a night here, but she hadn't moved much of anything in. When she appeared in Sherlock's shirt, the only clothes she had in the flat were those she wore to work that day. Maybe they were from the day before and she went home to change, he mused.  
That put a different spin on things. Her aggressiveness with Sherlock, her calling Mycroft "Mike", asking after Mary-- it looked like she was staking a claim, warning him off. John chuckled. As though that was necessary. Sherlock had John to himself in the flat for more than a year and a half before he left. Never once did he betray any desire to have John around as any more than a general dogsbody and occasional subject for experiments. On the odd occasion when it seemed like there was a chance of something more, if John made any move in that direction, Sherlock closed the door in his face. Sometimes literally.  
At the wedding dinner, though, Sherlock had been unusually open and emotional, clearly stating that he loved John, making John doubt his decision to continue his relationship with Mary -- at his own wedding! -- before telling them that Mary was pregnant and they'd have no need of him with a real baby on the way. Then, the night after the morning with Janine, Sherlock had told John that love was nothing but "human error."  
Yeah, John thought, he'd have to get those thoughts about Sherlock and what it would be like with him under control. He'd be here for some weeks, helping him in and out of the bed, to the toilet, with washing and dressing. He'd have to lock that part of his libido up and throw away the key.  
Mrs. Hudson had offered to pick up some groceries when she went to the supermarket tomorrow. He made a list and left it on the table outside the door to her flat. He'd been living at the hospital since the night they confronted Mary, only slipping home to get clothing when Mary was at work and Sherlock under the watchful eye of his brother. He didn't want Sherlock pulling another disappearing act.  
Today, though, Sherlock had promised to stay put and behave, with the carrot of getting out of hospital tomorrow. What to do after that, about Mary and the baby -- oh, gods, the baby -- that would be a decision for another day.


End file.
